


The Glass Skull

by Black_Rose_117



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009) RPF, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Glass Skull, Henchmen, John - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Moriarty - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, skulls - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:27:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Rose_117/pseuds/Black_Rose_117
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John get into an argument that leads to the destruction of a personally made glass skull that John made for Sherlock. While John was pissed before, finding his hard work shattered across the floor only fueled he rage. Now Sherlock has to try to get John back and to get him to forgive him before Moriarty can have his say in the matter. </p><p>*Author's note: this is an older fic that I wrote at the beginning of my writing stage, so it may not be as good as some of my more recent fics in terms of grammar, spelling, and detail. I hope you still enjoy and thank you for reading!*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat at the table in the kitchen, leaning over the microscope and looking deeply into the lens. He had been at this for an hour and hadn't figured anything out. John leaned on the door frame, his arms crossing his chest, watching Sherlock. He was leaning his head against the frame, watching his boyfriend struggle to figure it out. 

"Arg! I have nothing, John! Nothing!" Sherlock boomed all of a sudden, throwing a pad of paper to the floor. 

"I'm sure you'll get it soon en-" 

"No! Normally I could figure something out by now! Have my next move, figure out what to try next to deduce what in bloody hell this stuff is! But I just can't! I don't know what to try next! I've tried everything!" Sherlock motioned to the surrounding kitchen then stood up, pushing past John to the living room. "It's just not -there-, John! I just can't get it!" 

Sherlock slumped into his arm chair, cradling his head in his fingers. John watched him from the kitchen door way. It was rare to have Sherlock this upset. 

"Sherlock, if I could just make a suggestion-" John said, taking a step towards Sherlock's doubled-over form.

"No, John, you can't! You know why? Because you, like everyone else in the world, are an idiot! You don't know what in bloody hell you're doing!" Sherlock shouted, looking straight into John's eyes. 

John could see his anger, his outrage, but it gave him no right to treat him this way. Angrily, he snached his coat from a chair in the kitchen, stormed over to the door, and threw it open.

"Where are you going?!" Sherlock shouted, watching him in furry as John reached for the handle to shut the door behind him. 

"Out!" John shouted and slammed the door shut. 

There was a second slam of a door below, then the flat was quiet. Sherlock sat there for a moment in the silence. It was driving him mad. Before he knew it, he had stood, screamed something vagily along the lines of "fucking bastard!" and had thrown the first thing his hand had found (which just happened to be a glass skull John had bought him for his birthday a week ago) against the far wall with a fatile crack!

Sherlock stood, breathing heavily for a moment, before his eyes fell on the shards of glass skull that lay across the couch and floor. His heart sank and he raced over to the pieces, picking them up and placing them in his hand.

"No, no, no, no, no!" He muttered, looking at the shards. He dropped them and leaned back to the coffee table, letting the bottom of his skull hit it. "Damn it..."

He closed his eyes and took in the silence. He just called his boyfriend an idiot and broke the best gift he's ever gotten. The skull had had his and John's names painted on the back in a small heart, now that heart lay shattered and their names spilt. When John sees this-

Sherlock rubbed his hand over his face and stood up. He stumbled over to were his phone was, picked it up, and opened a new message to John.

I'm so sorry... Please come home.  
-SH

There was silence for maybe ten seconds before John's ringtone filled the flat. His heart droping again, Sherlock glided into the kitchen and scooped up the device from the table. He left it here in his haste...

Sherlock thought for a moment before jogging to put on his coat and sprinting down the stairs. He had to find John before something happened to him...


	2. Chapter 2

The sky was as dark as midnight and the wind howled down the streets that weaved it's self through the massive buildings. Sherlock paused outside the door to the flat, letting the rain that fell from the clouds above to pound his on the head like hail. He scanned the streets, where would John go? He had no girlfriend to run to, no shelter to stay at. Would he find a motel? Was he that mad?

Sherlock started jogging rapidly down the sidewalk, heading to the one place Sherlock could only see reasonable for John to go. 

The dark skies swirling above like broken nightmares, St. Bart's Hospital stood tall and dark as Sherlock approached the entrance. He ran through the back doors and started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

Bursting into the lab, no John was in sight. 

"Sherlock?" Sherlock turned to see Molly coming towards him. "Something I can help with?"

"No, no. Just looking for John." Sherlock turned to leave.

"Is he missing?" Molly asked before the doors were open all the way so Sherlock could make his escape.

Sherlock sighed. "No, I just... said some stupid stuff and he left..." Sherlock continued through the doors and down the hall.

"I'll tell him you're looking for him if he comes around!" Molly called after the retreating Sherlock, who just waved a thanks over his shoulder as he sprinted down the stairs and out the building once again.

He ran to the park, nearly getting hit by a taxi as he crossed a street without looking in his haste. His mind was crowded with worried questions as he sprinted down the trail that ran through the park. There wasn't a sight of John in the park, nor near the London Eye. Where could he be?

Sherlock checked his phone as he gasped for air in front of the London Eye that towered behind him. It was a stupid hope, but maybe John would go back to the flat and find his phone and text him. Just maybe... 

With no messages, Sherlock shut his phone and ran his fingers through his soaked mess of hair. He had no idea where else to look. Where would John go? Sarah's? Would he go to her place? Would he be back in the morning? Was he already back and just refusing to text Sherlock? Was he overreacting? Would John stay mad at him for this?

Sherlock slugged over to a cafe that sat across the street from the London Eye and sat down under a umbrella that hung over a small, two person table. A young, college aged woman came over to him, holding a notepad and wearing a black apron over her tight red skirt and white polo shirt. 

"Can I get you something, sir?" She asked with a smile, her pen ready as she licked her cherry red lips.

"Coffee, black." The waitress jotted it down on her little notepad and hurried back inside.

Sherlock sat there, looking out at the traffic and people desperately trying to get out of the rain. John was out there among them, yet Sherlock couldn't find him. How was he supposed to? Should he have been back at the flat, waiting for John's return only to fling himself in his arms and apologize a million times? Was that what John wanted? For Sherlock to suffer? 

The waitress returned and placed the white mug in front of him. Sherlock nodded his thanks as she turned to hurry back out of the storm. Sherlock was drenched right through, so the rain that still hit him despite the umbrella wasn't that big of a deal. He was the only one outside at the tables as the sidewalk's crowed thinned more and more by the minute. Soon he'd be alone.

All alone and no phone to reach John at...


	3. Chapter 3

John walked amongst the thinning crowed, his hands shoved in his jumper pockets. The rain had soaked him through and the cold was making him shiver uncontrollably. He had been walking for over an hour by now, his mind telling him how angry he should be. How much he should hate Sherlock. How much he wanted to just forget him. 

But something in his heart wouldn't let him. That small part of him regretted walking out at all. Sherlock was just mad, and it isn't like he hasn't called him an idiot before.

No, this time was different. This time, he had completely meant it. This time, he wanted it to hurt. 

John shook the thought out of his mind and continued to walk. He wasn't really watching where he was going, just sort of letting his feet carry him to where they wanted to go. Before he really knew it, he was laying on his back, looking up at the rain that pounded his face, feeling the warmth of blood surround his head as he blacked out, the sight of St. Bart's the last thing he remembered. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

John's eyes seemed to roll in his head, a dull pain pounded in the back of his skull and everything was spinning. A bright light above him seemed to blind him from everything around him. He blinked a few times, trying to get the room into focus. 

'God...' He thought, taking his head in his hand. 'Sherlock..?'

He looked around the blurry room, but didn't see the tall, arrogant figure pacing the room. He closed his eyes, and tried to force the pain down to concentrate. He tried to remember what had last happened. He remembered looking up at St. Bart's, passing out. He remember the fight he had with Sherlock. He remembered why he had left, and his anger re-bubbled inside of him.

"Dr. Watson?"

John turned his head to see a doctor he has worked with standing in the doorway. 

"Dr. Conrad?" John strained to speak, it just hurt, his throat was so dry.

"You remember anything?" Dr. Conrad asked, walking into his room farther. 

"Yeah. Just falling and blacking out." John struggled to sit up and lean back on the pillows. 

"One of our nurses saw you in the rain, blacked out on the side walk, bleeding from your head. We brought you in and stitched you up." Dr. Conrad looked through his files at the end of the bed.

"When should I be able to leave?"

"I say, oh, a few hours. We just need to check up on a few things. Make sure you are for sure ok to leave and all." Dr. Conrad dropped the files and smiled up at John. "You feeling ok, John?" 

"Yes, thank you, Dean." John smiled weakly back to him. 

"I'll be back in about ten minutes to check up on you. Try to rest." Dr. Conrad smiled and left the room. 

Once again, John was alone in, what he finally realized was, his room in St. Bart's. The room had finally stopped spinning and starting coming into focus. 

'God damn you, Sherlock Holmes.' John thought bitterly, turning onto his side. 'You caused this... I'd be better off on my own..."


	4. Chapter 4

John was released an hour later, armed with some medicine for his headache. Back into the rain, he slouched his head and shoved his hands back into his pockets. He kept his head down as he started down the sidewalk, shielding his eyes.

'This is all Sherlock's fault...' John thought bitterly, shivering in the cold. 'That arrogant bastard... If he could just except advice when people offer it! But no, he's Sherlock bloody Holmes, he has to insult them and make them feel like idiots... Maybe I should just leave him? I don't need a boyfriend that thinks nothing of me...' John sulked, heading slowly back to the flat to sleep. He really didn't want to face Sherlock, but his head refused to let him remain awake.

He entered the flat and shut the door behind him, dripping wet and keeping his head down to avoid Sherlock's eyes. Something glinted from the ground in the corner of his eye. He turned slowly and saw the glass skull, shattered in pieces, scattered across the floor. John's heart skipped a beat as he bent down and picked up a piece, noticing it was a part of the heart with their names in it. His stomach cramped at the sight before anger engulfed him. He threw the piece back with the rest of them and stormed into his room. 

Sherlock wasn't home, he could tell. It was too quiet.

Perfect. 

John pulled two duffle bags from under his bed and quickly started throwing items into them. Clothes, pictures, small gifts friends had given him; all of it was thrown quickly into the bags. He jotted down a quick note to Sherlock, threw it on Sherlock's chair, and stormed out of the flat and back into the rain. 

He didn't know where he was going. With Sherlock being his boyfriend for over a year and a half, he didn't have any girlfriends to go to. He squinted up and down the street and started down the sidewalk.

'Guess I'll have to settle for a mottle tonight...' John thought as he dragged himself down the street.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock finished his coffee and had dragged himself back to the flat. The door was unlocked and his heart skipped a beat. Maybe John was inside! He took the stairs two at a time and burst into the flat. He looked around wildly, with no sight of John.

"John?!" Sherlock called, running up to his room. "John?"

The door was closed so Sherlock knocked loudly. With no answer, Sherlock opened it and stepped inside. Item were clearly missing and wet spots on the floor indicated he was here not all too long ago. Sherlock sulked back into the kitchen and noticed John's phone was gone. Sherlock, heart pounding, glanced into the living room and saw the pad of paper on his chair. He took it and turned it over, noticing it was in John's handwriting.

Sherlock,  
I can't be with someone so inconsiderate! You are an uncaring bastard who can't seem to think of anyone but yourself! Do you know how much time I put into that bloody skull of you?! No one makes those things! I had to make it for you, than find someone to paint out names on it and make it all blend in! You get mad because of some stupid case and break the damn thing! Plus, not to mention, you freaking called me a bloody idiot! The hurt, Sherlock. That really hurt. I do nothing but try to be nice to you; love you, get you what you need, put up with your stupid experiments, help you when you do something stupid and hurt yourself. I chase you around London at two in the bloody morning and this is how you show me you love me? No, Sherlock. I'm not doing this anymore. It's over between us. I'm not putting up with your shit only to get hurt and told I'm an idiot. You meant so much to me, Sherlock. You meant everything to me, but it's obvious I mean nothing to you. I was all ready to talk to you about it, but the skull cleared up any doubts I had. You don't need me, you never did. So maybe I don't need you.

Goodbye, Sherlock.  
John.


	6. Chapter 6

John sat in the hotel lobby, running his hand through his soaked hair. There was a long line to the desk and John didn't think his leg could hold him. It was slowly starting to tingle in pain as he had been walking. He rubbed it, trying to get the pain to subside with no such luck. 

A man in a suit came over to him, obviously working for the hotel due to his name tag. 

"May I help you, sir?" The man asked, folding his hands behind his back. 

John stood. "Yes, actually. I was wondering if you have any open rooms? Or know of any place that does?"

"Well, come with me and we can check," the man (his name tag reading Michael) said, starting to turn towards the counter. 

John followed Michael to a computer with his bags and set them down. He leaned heavily on the counter as Michael's fingers flew across the keyboard. A few minutes passed before Michael spoke.

"I'm sorry, sir. All hotels seem to be full. I can't find a single room. It is travel season, after all. So sorry, sir," Michael frowned at the computer, than looked up at John.

"So no place in all of London has an open room?" John asked in disbelief.

"I'm sorry, sir," Michael shook his head. "We've been booked solid for months."

"Well, thank you..." John muttered, gathering his bags.

Maybe it was just time to go home...


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock sat in his arm chair, reading the note over and over again. The words didn't seem like wanting to sink in.

John wasn't coming back. How could he not come back? 221B was his -home-!

Wasn't it?

Sherlock was his -life-! He had said so many times!

Didn't he?

Sherlock sighed and cursed silently, running his hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry, John," Sherlock muttered, hoping against everything that John would hear him somehow.

Where else could John go? Sherlock's brain snapped into action:

No girlfriends due to me and he couldn't have gotten one in... three hours. No, too short a time. He has to have gone to somewhere where he knew someone. Hotel is possible, but no. Travel season. Would be booked solid, too unlikely. Friends? Does John have friends besides me? Of course, people like him... List? List.

Mrs. Hudson - No, too close to me. Wouldn't be likely. He would just come home.

Lestrade - Possible. But no, wife issues. He wouldn't want to intrude.

Anderson - Never.

Donovan - As if...

End list. Family members. Any alive? Harry. No, he wouldn't go to her, too much drama. Parents? Both alive. Father drama, obvious. Kept in touch with his mother, many letters. Would he go back to her? Of course! There's no where else, even with his father still there. He had a letter addressed to his mom in his room. Hasn't mailed it yet. Perfect!

Sherlock stood from his chair and went to John's room. He grabbed the envelope, read the address quickly, and ran from the flat. He hailed a cab and all but yelled the address to the cabbie. The cabbie looked back to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow at the distance. 

"I have the money, now go! Now!" Sherlock urged.

The cabbie shrugged and they were off.


	8. Chapter 8

John hesitated before knocking on the door in front of him. He knocked before looking himself over, his clothes damp from London and his hair still half plastered to his head. A woman opened the door, straight blond hair flowing down her back. Her eyes were a bright green, just like John's. She was a bit larger in size and the smile that crossed her face was dazzling. Before he could get out a greeting, her arms were around him.

"Oh, Johnny! What a surprise! Please, do do -do- come in!" She beamed.

She took his bags and he could smell faint smoke on her clothes. He followed her inside and shut the door behind them.

"Sorry about not calling first," He called, setting his shoulder bag in the doorway where his mom had placed the first. He followed her into the kitchen.

"No worries! Not a problem! Not in the least!" She said cheerfully. There was banging in the kitchen as John sat at the table. "What brought you here?" She asked as she set a tray of cookies on the table and say across from John.

John took a cookie and bit into the warm, fresh chip, chewing slowly. "Sherlock and I... Sort of got in a fight..." he said slowly, feeling his face blush red.

"Your boyfriend, Sherlock?" Mrs. Watson asked slowly, turning her head and giving John a sad face.

"Mom, how many other Sherlocks do you know?" 

Mrs. Watson gave a 'well... That's true...' face before biting into a cookie herself. "I'm sorry, dear."

"Its fine... He obviously didn't care..." John replied, taking an angry bite of his cookie.

"Why do you say that? From all your letters, it sounded like he cared a lot!"

"I got him this glass skull as a gift, he loves skulls, see, and it had our names on the back in a heart. I had to make it myself. I found it shattered..." John sighed, setting down the rest of his cookie on a napkin. "He doesn't really -care-. Doubt he ever did. Knowing him, it was all show... I was so stupid..."

John ran a hand over his face as he felt tears begin to form. "Stop it, John Watson," He whispered in a soldier tone. "Soldiers don't cry. Not soldiers who fought on the line... Not soldiers that killed..." But nothing could stop the tears now.

"Oh... Sweetie..." Came his mom's voice.

A chair moaned back as it lost the weight it carried. Soon, John was folded into his mom's arms, crying. He felt like a child again, crying into his mom's shoulder. His mom soothed him as John kept muttering, "Stop it, John Watson... You're... You're a soldier... A -soldier-!"

"John, stop..." His mom whispered. "You may be a soldier, but you're also -human-." That got John to stop his muttering and just cry into his mom's shoulder.

"What's going on here?" Came a deep voice from behind Mrs. Watson.

"Dad!" John whimpered.

He pushed away from Mrs. Watson, turned his back on the both of them, squared his shoulders and balled his fists. 

"John? What are you doing back?" Mr. Watson growled slightly. "You weren't just -crying- were you?"

"N-no sir!" John said, forcing his voice to harden. "Of course not, sir!"

"That's my boy!" Mr. Watson exclaimed, locking John into a head lock and messing up his hair. 

John forced a laugh as his dad let go. He turned to face his dad, hoping his eyes weren't top red. With dark brown hair and hazel eyes, his dad looked nothing like him. A pot belly grew heavily over his belt, threatening to almost burst the buttons on his shirt. 

"Thats a soldier! A soldier never crys! Right, son?" 

"Right, sir," John said, avoiding eye contact.

"Honey, tea!" Mr. Watson barked as he sat at the table. Mrs. Watson disappeared into the kitchen quickly. "Sit, son." John sat down. "So, what brought you here?"

"Well, sir, Sherlock and I... Kind of got in a... A fight..." John stuttered, wondering if his father knew about their relationship.

"Awh," Mr. Watson said, sitting back in his chair. "Bastard finally kick you out?"

John's chest tightened in anger at his dad. "Yes, sir," he growled.

"About time. What use would an army doctor, er, sorry... Ex-army doctor, have go a consulting detective? John about zilch! That's how much." 

John's fist clenched as tea was set in front of them and the doorbell rang.

"Excuse me..." Mrs. Watson bowed as she left to answer the door.

"What would he want you for, anyway? You're useless!" Mr. Watson laughed, sipping his tea. "Stupid as a tack!"

"Stop it!" John slammed his hand on the table, standing. Both cups shook dangerously at the outburst. "You bastard! You have no right to be insulting me! I have done more with my life in a few years than you have your whole life! I am -very- smart! And I -can- help on cases! I've saved hundreds of lives! Solved dozens of cases! You cannot call me useless, you bastard!"

John slammed the table again, breathing hard. He looked up to see his mother in the doorway, Sherlock right behind her.

"He's not useless!" Sherlock growled, stepping into the room. He got into Mr. Watson's face. "Your son is the best man I've ever had at my side for any case. He helped me through many of them! He's better than all the police combined! I love him," Sherlock growled, his eyes dangerous.

Mr. Watson got to his feet and got back into Sherlock's face.

"You -love- him?" Mr. Watson growled back. He let out a deep, bitter laugh. "He cannot love you! My boy's straighter than a ruler! And he is a useless, pathetic, worthless piece of nothing! The boy hasn't done anything useful with his life since he was a boy! Lead his team to the championships, that one. Great football player, only thing he's ever been good at."

"Shut up!" Sherlock shouted, pushing Mr. Watson in the chest and into his chair. "John is more than that! Now leave him alone!"

Sherlock felt someone take his arm and, before he could protest, he was pulled quickly up the stairs. A door slammed behind him and he turned to see an angry John leaning against the door. 

"What are you doing here?!" John said angrily, going up to Sherlock. "Why did you come?! How did you find me?!" 

"It was easy. Going through the list, there wasn't many possibilities. I figured you came here and got the address off an unsent letter you wrote," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice calm. "I'm here to get you back. Have you come back home."

"No, Sherlock," John said slowly, sitting on the bed in the room. Sherlock noted it had to be John's old bedroom. "I can't be with you anymore... I'm done with being... -nothing-," John hissed, motioning to the door.

"But you're not nothing," Sherlock argued, stepping towards John. He sat on the bed next to him. 

"What about that skull? It was smashed."

"John, that was an accident. I was mad when you left and threw the first thing my hand touched. It broke my heart as soon as I realized what I'd done. You have to believe me," Sherlock begged, slowly taking John's hand.

"I do... But that doesn't change anything..." John said slowly, pulling his hand away.

"What are you saying?" Sherlock asked, his heart stopping in his throat. 

"I do think that we need a break..." John said, fighting tears.

Sherlock stood abruptly at the words. He didn't look at John, just stood with his fists clenched.

"You staying here, then?" Sherlock almost growled.

"Till I find somewhere else... Yes..." John whispered, tears finally breaking lose.

Sherlock nodded and started out the door. He paused before leaving.

"I love you, John Watson..." Sherlock whispered, than left the house with a slam.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock paced the flat like a caged animal. No cases. No files. Not even a missing rabbit. The criminals of London have gone soft. Boring.

Running his hands through his hair, Sherlock slumped onto the couch. Two weeks, three days. Two weeks, three days! No John. No calls from him, no texts, no letters; nothing! 

No criminals, no cases, no John.

No cases, no John...

No John...

John.

How long can he hold out? How long can he let Sherlock suffer, or go without a case? How long does it take for John to slowly go mad over not having any excitement in his life? Not walking the battle field? 

Sherlock sighed and reached for his cell phone in his pocket. He couldn't stand it anymore. 

How much longer?  
-SH

Till..?  
-JW

You come back?  
-SH

Sherlock, I doubt I am... My mom took me to look at flats today. Says she'll help pay for one if I do decide on a cheep enough one.   
-JW

John... Please come back...  
-SH

Resolve to begging? Well, that won't fix what you've done.  
-JW

What would it take?   
-SH

What do you mean?   
-JW

I want you back.   
-SH

Sherlock, you're making this hard...  
-JW

There's nothing hard about this, John. I love you. I need you. I want you home. Here. With me.  
-SH

I don't want to be hurt again.  
-JW

I never wanted to hurt you.  
-SH

I feel useless when I'm around you. Stupid, almost.  
-JW

Well, you're not. What can I do to prove that to you?  
-SH

You can start by not calling me stupid or normal or boring when I try to help you.   
-JW

What else?  
-SH

You can listen to me more.  
-JW

I can do that.  
-SH

Please, anything to get you back.  
-SH

You can start coming to restaurants with me. Eating more regularly, not making me force you food.   
-JW

I promise! I'll take you out on dates and eat on a normal basis.  
-SH

You will?  
-JW

Yes.  
-SH

And you're not just saying that?  
-JW

No! I need you back.  
-SH

I guess I can try to move back in...  
-JW

Please do. I'll come help you move your stuff back if you want.  
-SH

You? Work?  
-JW

I told you, anything to get you back.  
-SH

See you in an hour?  
-JW

I'll be there.   
-SH

Oh, and one more thing.  
-SH

Humm?  
-JW

John, will you go out with me? Give me another chance?  
-SH

No.  
-JW

...?  
-SH

Sherlock, it's hard being away from you. It's driving me mad, in fact. But I meant what I said, I don't want to be hurt and I'm done with feeling like nothing.  
-JW

I'll show you how much you mean to me, if that will help you understand.  
-SH

It's a start.  
-JW


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock arrived at John's parent's house exactly an hour later. He knocked on the door and smiled when John opened it. 

"Hey," He said, folding John quickly into a hug.

John didn't return it, he just stood there until Sherlock slowly backed off. 

"I'm still mad at you," John warned, pointing a finger in Sherlock's face, than bending down behind him only to shove a heavy box into Sherlock's chest. "Just because I'm moving back in doesn't mean I forgive you! You have a lot of ground to cover before we get that far."

Sherlock nodded sadly, shifting the box's weight slightly. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, before he turned and went to load the box into the car. 

\----------

John watched Sherlock start out to the car with the box in his hand and sighed deeply, running his fingers through his sandy hair. He hated being mad at Sherlock, but he couldn't let this go. Not this time. Sherlock had always gotten away with everything just by giving John "the face," making John melt. He couldn't let that happen this time.

He picked up a box behind him and started out to the car himself. He slid next to Sherlock, avoiding eye contact, and started to shift things in the already tightly packed car. He felt Sherlock's eyes drilling into him and it took everything he had to keep from looking back.

"John..?" Sherlock's voice was so small. 

"What?" 

A piece of paper was slid into his hand, folded into perfect fourths. He glanced sideways at Sherlock briefly before unfolding the paper.

"Would you go with me?" Sherlock asked as John read over the paper, stating a time and a very high-end restaurant at the edge of town. "It's for tomorrow. I want to take you out on those dates I promised you."

John sighed and folded the note back up. "I don't know, Sherlock..."

"John, you told me to prove to you that I loved you! You made me promise to take you on dates and eat regularly! Now that I'm trying, you won't let me. You have to help me out a little, John!" Sherlock said angrily. "We're going, tomorrow night at eight, and that's that!"

John turned to Sherlock and met his gaze. He slowly smiled at him and smiled. "Fine, it's a date," he said before turning back to continue packing the boxes.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock opened the cab door after paying the cabbie and unfolded himself from the seat. He stood, one hand on the door, and one hand out stretched for John to take his arm. With a swift movement and a glance, John got out of the car, ignored Sherlock's arm, and started to the doors of the restaurant. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, closing the cab's door and starting after John. 

Sherlock gave the waiter manning the podium up front the name in which their reservation was under, and they were lead to a table under a vast window of light shades of color. Blues and greens reflected onto the table as Sherlock pulled out John's chair for him and gave him a hopeful, sad smile. John glared at Sherlock angrily before taking the seat, letting Sherlock push him in as he draped the napkin over his lap. Sherlock sat down across from him and leaned on his hands on the table, just looking at John. John quickly raised his menu to block Sherlock his view and started the difficult task of deciphering the French cuisine. 

"John? Are you going to be like this all night?" Sherlock asked, fixing his tie and staring down at his special black jacket and tight fitting purple shirt. He looked over John, a simple white button-up and a gray jacket cradled his shoulders. Even now, frustrated and annoyed, John still looked amazing. 

"I don't see a reason why not..." John mumbled, trying to piece together the puzzle of the confusing words with the small pictures to the sides. 

"You told me to prove to you that I love you, John," Sherlock said slowly, reaching across and gently lowering the menu that blocked John's adorable face. "I'm making an effort. I got us reservations to the best restaurant in all of England, I dressed up for you, wore your favorite shirt and am trying to impress you with holding doors open, pulling out chairs and offering you my arm. I'm doing everything I've ever seen on those cheesy romantic movies we watched on the Telly. You've told me you're mad and you never wanted to move back in and a bunch of other things that have stung deeper than I knew possible, but one thing you never told me was that you didn't love me. John, tell me that, and I'll leave right now. Tell me that right now, and you'll... Never hear from me again." Sherlock's voice was deep with sorrow. His heart had taken to resting in his throat and painfully beating upon the inside, rubbing it raw. "Tell me you don't love me and I'll be gone..."

"I-" John started, looking up into Sherlock's eyes. They were dark and watery. The pain was irrelevant. "I don't-" John's heart dropped, he couldn't tell Sherlock he didn't love him. He couldn't lie. "Love you..."

Sherlock nodded and stood, folding his napkin and placing it on the table. "Please, feel free to eat whatever you want on the menu. Tell them to put it on my tab. I'll go start packing so you can go home to your flat and not have to be bothered by me." Sherlock started off and stopped a few feet from the table. He turned back and gently leaned over, brushing his lips over John's cheek. His heart clenched as his lips danced softly for only half a second before pulling back, a wave of tears over coming him. "I'm sorry..." He whispered, voice cracking. 

With that, he left John alone at the table. John watched Sherlock go, a hand going up to rest on where Sherlock's lips brushed his skin. He turned back to the menu, his heart feeling unbelievably heavy in his suddenly-too-small chest. Sherlock was gone.


	12. Chapter 12

John sat alone at the table for only a minute, before abruptly standing and throwing his napkin off his lap. He ran to the front of the restaurant and burst out the door. 

"Sherlock!" John called, seeing Sherlock getting into a cab and heading off. It wasn't going in the direction of 221B. Where was he..?

John couldn't start to wonder, his feet taking off at a run underneath him. He watched the cab turn a corner ahead, and quickly dodged into an alley way he knew would cut him to that cab.

Scenes of running through the streets of London, desperately trying to keep up with Sherlock flashed through his mind. He remembered every turn, what alleys lead where, what streets turned to what. His mind was in overdrive. No.

His mind was hacking into Sherlock's.

John dodged into another alley way as he glimpsed Sherlock's cab turning another corner. As he emerged on the other side, he tried to wave down Sherlock's taxi, calling out his name with no luck. Quickly, he headed to the roofs. 

Flinging himself over, rooftop to rooftop as he had done so many times before with Sherlock, John watched the cab, turning as it did. His heart was pounding, his lungs were burning and failing to bring in the amount of oxygen he needed, but he didn't care. He felt light-headed but his mind continued to work in Sherlock mode. They turned another corner and John flung himself over a particularly large crack in the roofs. He landed painfully against the corner as his torso was driven into the corner of the wall. He took a deep breath, clambered up as fast as he could, and continued to run after the cab, ignoring the pain in his ribs. Ignoring his screaming body and lungs that told him to stop. He couldn't. 

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't let him go. 

Not without a fight. 

John stopped, staring down at the street where Sherlock's taxi stopped. He watched as the tall, dressed up figure unfolded from the cab, paid the cabbie and started up the stairs to the building. 

He was turning to Mycroft.


	13. Chapter 13

John made his way off the roof quickly and crossed the street. He watches the taxi turn a corner a ways away and made his way up the bright white stairs to the double doors. He went over to a man at a desk just inside the door and took a piece of paper and scribbling down his name, Mycroft's, and that's he's been there before. The man nodded and John started to jog to Mycroft's office. 

His hand landed on the handle and was about to turn it when a sound reached his ears. Crying.

"Sherlock, calm down, please," Mycroft's soothing voice came from the other side of the door. John pressed his eat to the wood to hear better.

"I-I can't, Mycroft. H-he hates me! The l-love of my l-life h-hates me!" Sherlock sobbed. 

John's heart clenched. Sherlock never sounded like this. He never cried in front of anyone if he could help it. He really hurt him...

"Love of your life?" Mycroft asked softly.

"He is! He's the o-only one I'll e-ever love!"

John couldn't stand it anymore. He opened the door slowly and went inside. The room was silent except for quiet sniffling from Sherlock. John made eye contact with Sherlock but didn't move towards him. His eyes were full of anger and pain and... Fear? Was that fear?

"S-Sherlock?" John asked slowly, watching the man flinch slightly as though he was about to hit him. "I'm so sorry... I... Can we talk?" 

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft who understood immediately. He stood from his perch on the arm of the chair and exited the room, saying something about needing to go organize paperwork. John watched the door close behind the elder and then turned back to Sherlock, who was balled up in the chair. He took a few steps towards him than paused, the man flinching again. 

"Sherlock..." John started slowly, his gaze only able to meet Sherlock's for a few seconds at a time before having to look down. "About what I said at the restaurant-"

"Don't bother..." Sherlock said, waving his hand and standing from the chair, moving over to Mycroft's desk. "I broke that skull and hurt you, and you broke me. Whatever you say now to increase my pain, I promise you, it won't work. I'm as broken as you can make me..."

John watched as a tear escaped from Sherlock's eyes and he scrubbed at it furiously. He felt his own eyes start to water.

"I... Don't love you, Sherlock..." John said slowly, shaking his head as he spoke. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes darkening with pain and tears starting down his cheeks.

"I know..." He said slowly, nodding. "You've said that alread-"

"Let me finish," John whispered, moving towards Sherlock slowly. "You're loud, annoying, you act like a child, you do crazy, weird experiments everywhere you can. You get bored way too easily, you're clingy and messy and just an overall arrogant bastard," John said as he went up to stand right in front of Sherlock, who's tears ran freely now. He reached up to brush them away. "But you're also beautiful, amazing, brilliant, handsome, loving, caring, and, most importantly, the love of my life. I don't love you, Sherlock. It's so much more than that. Please, forgive me. I want to get our relationship back to normal... I want to get you back in my arms and mine again."

Sherlock looked deeply into John's eyes for a moment before gently pulling him into a tight hug. "You're the love of my life, too, John. And please, do take me back... Let me love you again."

"Please, do," John whispered before pulling Sherlock down and into his arms, kissing him deeply.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock took John's hand in the taxi ride home, holding it tightly with their fingers twisted together. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, feeling the warm brown curls mingle with his light golden hair. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply as Sherlock placed a soft, loving kiss to the crown of his head. 

As they arrived at 221B, Sherlock got out and held the door open, his other hand reaching out for John to take his arm. John smiled and took it, unfolding from the cab and giving Sherlock's arm a loving squeeze. They entered the flat and sat down on the couch, both laughing lightly. 

"I've missed you," Sherlock whispered, leaning over to kiss John gently. John smiled into the kiss and pulled Sherlock closer, deepening the kiss by sliding his tongue into the slightly parted lips. He started to push back on Sherlock gently until he was laying with his full weight along Sherlock's body. He ran his hands down to rub circles on the mans hips, longingly wanting the brilliant detective naked.

Sherlock moaned as John tightened his grip and dug his nails into the tender skin. John felt Sherlock's hands slid up and slowly start to undo the buttons on his shirt. 

The speed the heat went down to his crotch at was blinding. John hissed in pleasure and broke the kiss to go down and nip at Sherlock's neck. He felt the fabric of his shirt being slid over his shoulders and didn't even realize his hands had already moved on, reaching for John's belt and pants. John began to fumble with Sherlock's shirt when he felt his pants get swept off his body. He moaned as the cool flat air hit his crotch and he buried his face into Sherlock's neck and chest. He kicked off his pants and licked Sherlock's collar bone. 

"Do you want me, John?" Sherlock whispered into John's ear, gently turning them over so Sherlock was on top. "Want me to fuck you?"

John moaned at the lust in his voice. "Y-Yes... Sherlock... Yes..."


	15. Chapter 15

"Do you want me, John?" Sherlock whispered into John's ear, gently turning them over so Sherlock was on top. "Want me to fuck you?"

John moaned at the lust in his voice. "Y-Yes... Sherlock... Yes..."

"Well, then... Why am I still clothed?" He whispered into John's ear. 

John's breath hitched as he worked the buttons some more. He stripped Sherlock of his shirt and quickly started on his pants. As soon as the clothes were deposited on the floor with his, John ran his hands over the now-exposed skin that was Sherlock. He stoped at Sherlock's hips and reached around, grabbing his ass and moaning as Sherlock licked his neck. 

"You're so tense, love," Sherlock whispered, his voice deeper than normal and his eyes dark. Sherlock nipped at John's skin, just about the pulse line in his neck, and ran his tongue smoothly over the damaged skin. John moaned loudly and rolled his head back into the pillow agains the couch arm. 

"Sh-Sherlock... Please... Don't play with me..." John moaned, his voice low and almost to a growl. "Been too long... Need you now..."

"I love when you're needy," Sherlock purred. Without warning, John felt pressure as Sherlock slid into him. He moaned loudly and brought his hands to rest on Sherlock's lower back. 

Sherlock chuckled and brought John's lips to his again, brushing his tongue playfully over his bottom lip. John's back bucked up to Sherlock, trying to drag him deeper on both ends. He couldn't help the sensations that filled his body. The pain, the pleasure... the love.

Why did he ever let this man go? It was a skull... One he would be happy to replace. Sherlock meant so much to him, he would run to the end of the world if it meant staying with him. He couldn't imagine any obstacle standing in there way that they couldn't take down and felt stupid that he almost let the smallest of them all tear them apart. He pulled Sherlock closer into a more needy hug. He broke the kiss and placed his chin on Sherlock's shoulder, the hug pressing them together. 

Sherlock, all the way inside John by now, chuckled as he couldn't move his hips barely at all. He hugged John back as best he could, whispering, "You okay? You stopped me."

"I'm sorry... Just... Sorry..." John smiled and kissed Sherlock as he released him, the rhythm building back into Sherlock's hips. 

He didn't need to know by words how much he meant to John. Words couldn't fill the feeling anyway, nothing could. Not the kissing, slow and passionate or fast and needy; not the sex, long and loving or quick and longingly; not the words or the I love you's or the little every day actions that he did for this man. Added together, everything over the course of forever, just then maybe could the amount of this feeling become to dawn on Sherlock, maybe. The intensity of the love that bubbled into his stomach and heart. How much he needed this man, not just to be happy, but to be alive.

A scream was thrown to the ceilings as Sherlock pumped harder and came right into John, long and hard waves carrying him through it. John moaned as Sherlock filled him, then screamed something that sounded formed around Sherlock's name, as he came all over the bed sheet. Sherlock collapsed on top of him when they were both finished, and gently kissed his jaw, slowly pulling out. 

"You were... set off... easy tonight..." Sherlock purred, stroking a finger down John's cheek to his neck and to the bone. John shivered.

"You are just so perfect," John smiled, panting. "Just your looks could... set me off."

Sherlock smiled and kissed John slowly, neither wanting to deepen the kiss. "You're the love of my life, John... Promise me you'll stay... I promise I'll never hurt you again."

"I never want to be anywhere else," John whispered, smiling and leaning his forehead against Sherlock's and smiling.

He kissed him gently and held him close. He never wanted to leave this man again.

\----------

"John?" Sherlock moved slowly into the flat the next day. It was around noon and John was still in his bathrobe.

"Where have you been?" John asked slowly, standing and moving over to Sherlock. He tried to take Sherlock into an embrace, but he ducked away.

John watched his move swiftly to the other side of the room, over to the mantle, a frown creasing his face. 

"I was... fixing... something," Sherlock said, then he moved away from the mantle and smiled at John.

His eyes moved from Sherlock's face to what he just set on the mantle. A smile crossed his face and he ran over to Sherlock, pressing him against the wall and kissing him forcefully.

The new Glass Skull sat and watched them as they stripped each other, binding their love for each other with a heart on the back with their names inside of it.


End file.
